


Born for Adversity

by littlehollyleaf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode: s07e17 The Born-Again Identity, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Psychological Trauma, Repressed Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2019-09-06 13:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16833148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehollyleaf/pseuds/littlehollyleaf
Summary: Leaving Cas behind isn't easy. Coming back to him is harder.





	Born for Adversity

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a quick 7.17 coda and got away from me. Sorry? I can't help it if Dean's stuck in the longest sexuality crisis ever. Or that I have a burning need to see Cas cry... Okay, maybe that last one I can, shhhh...

_A friend loves at all times, and_  
_a brother is born for adversity._  
~ Proverbs 17:17

"Hey, uh... hey. I'm Smith. Dean. That's, um, Dean Smith, not... anyway, I'm calling about my brother? He's, err, he's an inmate with you... I mean patient. He's a patient."

Dean's fingers slip over the cheap plastic of his latest cell. His palms are sweating. _The fuck?_ He doesn't even know why he's doing this. There's nothing they can tell him he doesn't already know.

"We have a few Smiths on record, Sir," the chirpy voice on the other end of the line tells him. "What's your brother's name?"

"Oh, it's... Clarence," Dean answers, trying not to snarl as he forces his lips around the name.

_Fucking Meg._

They couldn't keep Emanuel, of course. If one of Crowley's dogs had already come sniffing after that guy chances were there'd be others. But god, _Clarence?_

Two seconds faster and they could have given their friend an alias that was half decent. But no, he and Sam were still recovering from Cas' magic trick, still trying to make sense of his terrified whimpers and puzzling out what he meant by 'brother, no' and 'stay back,' when the doctors arrived. Followed by the enemy of their enemy of their enemy. Who had promptly taken charge while their guard was down and devised a lengthy, intricate cover story for the whole thing, complete with quirky anecdotes about how the Smiths and their smartass cousin used to vacation together in New York.

Even so, Dean had thought about rejecting her dubious as hell gift horse—no doubt it was a Trojan more than anything. He'd thought about fighting the system with its narrow-minded, medical ways, telling Meg where to get off and taking Cas on the road there and then without looking back.

But watching Cas slide down the wall, lock his knees to his chest and bury his face in the crook of his folded arms, Dean knew that wasn't an option. If he hadn't found a way to care for his hell-torn brother, there was just no way he and Sam could cope with an unexpectedly hell-torn _angel_.

So they'd grit their teeth and played along.

"Clarence Smith..." the woman repeats, pausing as she, presumably, searches the database for Cas' file. There's a soft intake of breath and when she speaks next her voice is measured, pitched lower with professional courtesy. "There's no change I'm afraid, Mr Smith. He's still catatonic."

Like Dean knew he would be. This was such a waste of time.

"Okay, thanks."

He's about to sign off but for some reason he can't shift his thumb those extra few inches. For some reason his fingers have seized around the phone, knuckles tense and just this side of painful.

"No, wait, he... he's still, you know, he's still breathing, right? I mean, his vitals are good?"

_His vitals are good? **Really?**_ God, he needs to lay off the late night _Dr Sexy_ re-runs.

"Of course," is the answer. Spoken in warm, understanding tones. As if anyone could possibly understand this. "We're taking good care of him."

_Not good enough_ , Dean thinks.

"Would you..." the woman continues when Dean fails to respond. "Would you maybe like me to pass on a message? The doctors think he can still hear us, it might help... Sir? Sir?"

The insistent chirp of her voice continues right up until Dean hits the keypad, finally winning out in his struggle to disconnect. He does it with more force than strictly necessary and one of the thing's weirdass functions bleeps at him in complaint. Ignoring this, he fumbles the phone back in his pocket and Bobby's hipflask out. A message? What the fuck do you say to the guy who's taken on your baby brother's Hell for him, willingly signing himself up for lifetime after lifetime of torment?

_Thank you? Good job?_

Snorting, Dean takes a long pull from the flask and tries to let the feel of warm liquid down his throat burn the world away.

~*~

"Hi. This is Dean Smith. I'm calling to check on my brother, Clarence."

He's prepared this time. He knows what they need and he's calling _after_ a hunt. Not in a spontaneous rush on the way to one, like before, locked in a filthy gas station restroom with Sam waiting impatiently in the car outside.

This'll be easier. Just a quick thirty second check-up and he's done. Cas went above and beyond with what he did, redeeming himself and then some. Dean owes him.

Yeah. That's what this is. Repayment.

"Mr Smith, hi!"

It's the same woman. Or girl rather, Dean imagines, taking note of her youthful pitch for the first time. Figures. A run down place like that probably only has the budget for one secretary.

"Oh, I'm glad you called," she continues with what sounds like genuine enthusiasm. "Your brother's doing much better."

Dean's stomach rolls about like he's just taken to the sky and looped twice in quick succession. Cas _is_ still an angel. Maybe—

"Yeah, he's eating again now."

She might as well have told him Cas had sprouted devil horns and a tail for all the sense that makes.

"What?"

"It's not quite three meals a day, but when a patient in your brother's condition starts taking in food again it's always a good sign. In fact, I think his new nurse said he even spoke to her a little the other day."

The rolling stops and Dean's hope solidifies into dead weight, sinking inside him like a stone.

"His new nurse?"

"Yes. Meg Masters. She started a couple of weeks ago. A real godsend, actually. We had a lot of staff up and leave without even handing in their notice. It was awful."

_You don't know the half of it, sweetheart_ , Dean thinks, remembering the trail of burnt out demon hosts Meg had spirited away for them after they'd laid out the terms of their arrangement.

"So she's, what? Ca... Clarence's personal nurse now?"

They left her to watch him. It's not surprising Meg would insinuate herself as close to Cas as possible. But even so, the thought of that demon bitch having sole control over Castiel makes Dean's skin crawl and his jaw clench. His free hand balls into a fist and he has the overwhelming desire to punch something until it bleeds. Or until he does.

"She spends a lot of time with him, yes. He seems to respond to her," the secretary confirms. "But he's not her only patient. And Doctor Kandinsky is still in charge of your brother's case, of course."

"Right," Dean spits out, too tense to even care how close to growling he sounds. "Look, do me a favour? Just make sure he has other nurses looking in on him from time to time, okay? A lot of them."

He hangs up before he can hear her cheep back false promises or excuses. He's a couple of hundred miles away, he can't check if they're doing what he's saying. No point even asking really, except to drive himself nuts agonising over it. Meg's got the power here—they know it, she knows it. It's out of his hands.

That was the agreement.

_She_ watches Cas. While he and Sam hunt down Dick, get the leviathans out of their hair and maybe, with a shitload of luck Dean neither hopes for or expects, figure out a way to undo what the angel's done to himself. Any screw up on her end and they send notice of her whereabouts to Crowley, express delivery, and wait for the inevitable bloodbath.

_They_ let Cas stand in as her official-unofficial bodyguard. Or whatever. Take him away before she's ready or double cross her in any way and she puts Crowley's hounds on their trail, making nowhere even close to safe for them and their fragile friend.

That was the agreement.

The only option Dean can see that stands half a chance of keeping a vulnerable Cas out of the grabby hands of the demon hoard. Or worse, the pointed, snapping teeth of Dick Roman's starving army.

That was the agreement.

Doesn't mean Dean has to like it.

~*~

"Yeah, hello, I'm—"

" _Deano_. A pleasure hearing your voice, as always. Makes me tingly all over."

Dean thinks about hanging up, but he doesn't want to give her the satisfaction.

"Meg."

"Heard you'd been calling. Sweet." She purrs the last word like a self-satisfied tiger, licking its chops after a meal. "There's no need, really. Me and Feathers here are having a whale of a time. The fun never stops."

"If you've hurt him, I _swear_ —"

"Easy, Rambo. All I've done is keep up appearances. A little spoon-feeding. A bath or two." She hums suggestively and Dean's lips curl back in disgust at the thought of Cas laid bare before this... this _thing_. That time he'd kissed her had been sort of funny, mostly because Cas had taken the bitch so completely by surprise. Tell the truth, Dean had been proud. It had been good to see his friend losing that stick up his ass. But this time Cas is at _her_ mercy, and that's just sick, undignified and _wrong_. "Can't have anyone cluing in to the fact he's not entirely human, now, can we? "

"And that's _all_ you've been doing? _Really?_ "

"Your lack of faith would break my heart, Dean. If I had one. But don't worry, he's just how you left him. That is, a hundred kinds of cuckoo, of course, with enough juice to burn up everyone in here if he's spooked the wrong way. It's okay though, I got him under control."

Because that's not ominous.

"What does _that_ mean?"

"It means I'm keeping up my side of our little arrangement," Meg answers, voice turning low and dark. "Just make sure you do the same and we all stay one big happy family, okay?"

The dial tone clicks in before Dean has the chance to reply and he spends the next minute and a half staring through the crumbling plaster of the hovel he and Sam have 'commandeered,' a cold, numbing sensation twisting deep in his gut and leaking slowly through the rest of him.

~*~

"Dean. _What?_ " Meg sighs the next time Dean calls. He asks for her specifically. Just to piss her off.

"Just checking in," Dean quips back with false charm while Sam sniggers in the driver's seat beside him.

"On him or on me? Cos you know clingy guys are such a turn off."

"Just give me an update," Dean snaps, dropping the pretence.

"What, no foreplay? Fine. No change."

"Nothing?"

"I'm sorry, did I stutter? He's still in LaLa Land, population one spaced out angel. Got drool all down my arm the other day, by the way. I hope you boys realise the trouble I'm going to for you here."

_Yeah, because you're totally doing it out of the goodness of your heart._

"Alright, well, call us if he wakes up or, you know, anything."

"No shit. How bout you do me a favour in return and _quit calling every five seconds_ so I can do my job? Keep this up and the staff are gonna start to think your interest is a little more than brotherly—"

"Yeah fine," Dean cuts in, already exhausted by the conversation, by knowing there'll be hundreds like it in the weeks to come.

"I mean, come on Deano. I know it's hard being a housewife without a big strong man to take care of you, but you're just gonna have to suck it up, because -"

"Thanks for your help, Meg," Dean speaks over her, snapping his phone off with Meg's voice still squeaking down the line. The clack of plastic coating against the handset might be the best thing he's heard all day. "What a bitch."

Sam waits a moment, Dean assumes to give this fact the respect it deserves, then—

"So, Cas is the same then?"

"Down to the drool," Dean nods back, staring at the road ahead as it unfolds under the glaring lights of the AMC they'd picked up a couple of miles back.

It's better than risking a look at his brother as he answers because damn it, the kid's gotten fucking good at reading him lately, even when he's got his best game face on. And he can't let Sam see how bad what's happening with Cas is eating at him. If they're to stand any chance of taking out Dick they need to focus.

"By the way, how is your custard?" Dean asks after a suitable pause. Long enough that he can glance round without fear of giving anything away.

Sam keeps his eyes forward.

Guess they're both playing the same game tonight.

"It's alright. It's getting better," Sam answers, voice clipped.

Dean just waits.

Waits for the anguished sigh Sam likes to make before spilling what's really on his mind.

It comes right on cue.

"I just wish it wasn't like the damn tape from _The Ring_ ," is what Sam follows up with. "I mean, I feel like I'm okay because I passed on the crazy."

"But, you didn't, you heard what Cas said—"

"Look man, let's, let's not—"

It's a relief when Dean's cell starts ringing—a 911 from Garth, of all people—putting an end to the conversation.

~*~

Two weeks later and they're between jobs, driving from a finished one—disappointingly not leviathan, despite the mystery deaths happening in yet another subsidiary of Fuck-You-Roman Enterprises—and heading to another. A suspicious cluster of suicides a couple of States over. They've been on the road less than an hour when Sam starts squirming. After a series of sighs and false starts he finally shifts his massive baulk around in the passenger seat and says,

"You know, this next job isn't that far out. We could take a detour through Indiana."

It's casual enough, but Dean feels the air in the car grow dense with the words, sees the way Sam's fingers tap a little too erratically over the newspaper on his lap. Nervous as well, Dean grips the steering wheel tighter on instinct and is immediately pissed off by the way his fingers stick to hot plastic instead of melting into the worn, comforting leather they remember from his baby.

They don't talk about it anymore. Both trying to put things beyond their control from their minds.

But there's only one reason to stop in Indiana.

Dean wonders if his brother's made a few clandestine phone calls to the place himself. He knows better than anyone what Cas is going through after all, and he'd been pretty vocal about getting the angel out of the asylum those first few days. Until the lack of reasonable alternatives had driven him to miserable, resigned silence.

He doesn't answer Sam.

Just takes the next exit off the Interstate to accommodate the change in direction.

~*~

"Sam and Dean Smith. We're here to see our brother."

Dean fidgets at Sam's side, shuffling from foot to foot as the younger man makes their introductions. Being back here, inside the place he'd almost lost his brother, where to all intents and purposes he _has_ lost his best friend, _again_ , is making him restless. Now he's here, Dean wants nothing more than to turn around and walk right back out.

Hospitals have always had that effect.

It's something about the way everyone who matters to him keeps dying in them.

He'd actually stalled in the doorway—put one foot through and stopped. The thought of Cas as he'd seen him last hitting hard and unexpected. How still the angel had become—glassy eyed and unresponsive. In a lot of ways, it's worse than if he were dead, having him like that. Right there, and yet further from Dean than ever. A cruel taunt of what can never be. At least Sam had been vocal in his insanity. At least he'd been _Sam_. Not a silent statue of a guy Dean used to know.

Dean's just lucky Sam was behind him, barrelling past without hesitation and marching straight to the check-in desk. Dean's pride wouldn't let him put his baby brother through this alone, which left him little choice but to trail in after like a kicked puppy, tail between his legs.

"Sam and Dean?" the girl at the counter repeats and Dean knows at once from the peppy, overexcited tone this is his telephone correspondent.

She's older than he imagined—early thirties maybe—with a cute bob of dark hair, dark eye shadow and black nail polish. The sunflower earrings and matching necklace disrupt the Gothic theme, but while it's a strange mix it seems to work for her. A few lifetimes ago Dean might have been tempted.

"That's Clarence, right?" she continues, proving herself brighter than Dean gave her credit for as well. Even more so when she takes in the order of Sam's introduction and turns to Dean directly. "Dean?" He gives a brief nod. "It's good you came. I know I said he was getting better last time we spoke—" Sam's eyes flick his way at that, but he doesn't look surprised. "—but I'm sorry to say he took a turn for the worse a few days ago. I've been trying to contact you, but we've been having problems with your number."

"Yeah, uh, phone trouble," Dean mutters. _The fuck?_ They're still changing phones, like Frank advised, but they've got a couple they keep for the people they trust—like Garth. Or the people they're pretending to trust—like Meg. She hadn't mentioned any problems though. _If that bitch is holding out on us -_ "When you say, turn for the worse...?"

The girl flattens her lips in sympathy.

"He attacked one of the nurses here. Simon," she explains. "It was... pretty bad. He got rushed to intensive care and Clarence was sedated. We're keeping him restrained for now."

Something heavy clamps down inside Dean's ribcage.

"H—How is he?"

"Not good. Broken ribs, broken arm. He had a punctured lung too, I think. He's pulling through though. They had to operate, but—"

"We, uh—" Sam cuts in, leaning across the desk and curving his lips in apology. Thank god for him though—all Dean seems capable of is standing there, stock still and staring. "We meant, how's Clarence?"

"Oh." The girl blinks a few times. She's not disapproving, exactly. Just thrown. This Simon's obviously a friend, maybe even a favourite here, and the idea that someone might _not_ want to know how he's doing probably isn't one she's come across before. "Oh. Of course. He's, well, he's calm again now, last I heard. Nurse Masters is watching him."

Whoever Cas hulked out on gets an intimate first name, but Meg is still 'Nurse Masters.' Interesting. Apparently the demon's talent for subterfuge doesn't extend to making friends then.

But then again, who fucking cares? More important is—

"Where is he?"

The question must have been harsher than Dean intended, because the warmth in Not-Goth's face drains away and even Sam drops his Friendly Giant act to eye him wearily.

_Screw it_ , Dean thinks. He's not in the mood for these games, for polite conversations and 'please' and 'thank you' and 'have a nice day.' He needs to get to Cas, right the fuck now.

"I, err, visiting hours aren't..." the girl tries, wilting quickly when Dean glowers at her. "I'll get someone to take you."

~*~

"Hi boys. You should have told me you were coming, I'd have baked some cookies," Meg simpers as they walk in, getting up from her chair in the corner of the dark, windowless room and moving towards them with her customary swagger, hips swinging evocatively, smile oozing sleaze.

Dean barely sees her, eyes locking onto the bed in the centre. It looks like something out of a clichéd horror flick. The mattress is grubby and torn in places, little better than the ones he and Sam have been using lately, with stuffing sticking out of the holes like puss from a septic wound. A wiry metal headboard protrudes from the top like the pinchers of some gigantic insect, nicotine-yellow paint peeling off the bars in long strips. But worst of all is the figure splayed out over the thing, faded leather straps holding him in place and nothing but a thin, off-white cotton gown covering his naked body. There's a needle in his left arm, the one nearest Dean, with plastic tubing snaking up from it to a drip full of opaque fluid and what the fuck? How is that even possible?

"What happened?" Dean snaps, eyes never leaving Castiel's prone form, his friend's gaze fixed and vacant on the ceiling. Cas' trademark blue is watered down enough to be almost non-existent, the heavy black and purple bags beneath his eyes shining with more vibrance in the cold light of the room. He looks drained and strung out. Like an old coat that's been through the mill one too many times, losing its shape and colour. Two shakes away from being trashed.

Dean thinks of the trenchcoat back in its old place with the rest of his stuff in the trunk of the car outside. He wonders if he'll get another chance to return it. He's had so many second chances with Cas already, it can't be long before the universe decides they've used up their quota of miracles for this eternity.

He thinks about this instead of moving, letting Sam move around him while he stays a few steps from the door, keeping that last bit of distance between him and the bedside. It's the one thing left to him in all this, the very last, that's still in his control.

"Our boy had a bad day and got a little frisky with one of the staff," Meg shrugs as Sam walks around the bed, inspecting Cas' bindings. "No big."

"No big?" Sam repeats, stopping to stare at her. "The guy's in intensive care!"

Meg rolls her eyes and turns to glare at him. Her black hospital slacks don't allow her to hook her thumbs through belt hoops like she might with her usual tight-fitting jeans, so she rests her hands on her hips instead.

"Like I said," she answers. "Clarence here could have snuffed him in a second if he'd had a mind to. Guy's lucky all he got were a few fractures. Or ten."

"And where were you when this was going down? You're supposed to be watching him," Dean barks, turning to her for the first time.

Just the sight of her makes him feel sick. Her stolen body—twisted and tainted no doubt beyond recognition from its original owner—makes a mockery of the clean white scrubs she's wearing. Her scraped back ponytail only emphasising the smug, self-satisfied look in her eyes. But that's still an improvement on the way looking at Cas is making him feel.

"Oh, forgive me for my inability to be two places at once," she bites back. "I was busy cleaning out dear old Mrs Andrews' bedpan down the hall. I'm supposed to be a nurse, aren't I?" She steps closer, folding her arms across her chest. "You should be grateful for my restraint. If it wasn't for you and Angelcake over there, I would have ripped out the throats of everyone in here and laughed as their blood ran through my fingers."

"Cry me a river," Dean spits, glaring down at her as he closes the distance between them with a step, fingers itching for the knife tucked in his jeans.

"What are these markings?" Sam interrupts, and Dean decides to let Meg live for now in favour of turning to his brother. Sam's pulled back the leather of one of the restraints round Cas' arm and Dean can see the edge of some kind of symbol etched on the inside. "They look Enochian."

"What? You thought a few scraps of leather were gonna hold him?" Meg sneers. "Had to spice his meds up too."

" _What?_ " Dean's fingers twitch back to his side.

"Hey, don't blame me. He's the one who went loco and got himself on permanent sedation for the next month. I needed to make that happen somehow, didn't I?" Meg shrugs. "So I mix a little special brew in with his food supply." She waves at the drip, looking smug. "Stuff I know is toxic for angels. Pretty smart, actually. Makes him all soft and squidgy. Enough that he'll take a needle or two when he has to."

"You're _poisoning_ him?" Dean hisses, wanting to shout but knowing he can't. They've got enough problems without having the doctors outside getting nosy.

"I'm _containing_ him," Meg answers back, cool as anything.

"How do you even know what's toxic to angels?" Sam asks.

"You boys think you were the only ones to have a 'special relationship' with the Big Man downstairs?" Meg quirks an eyebrow at the two of them, lips twisting up. "Really?"

The warmth in Meg's smile as she mentions Lucifer makes Dean's blood run cold. He remembers Cas telling them about how she'd stood at the devil's side the night Ellen and Jo died, fawning over the archangel in some twisted parody of a kid at Santa's knee. The same Lucifer Cas is trapped in a living nightmare with right now. And they've been expecting her to _help_ Cas with that?

"These don't..." Sam mutters, still looking at the symbols. "These aren't just restraining sigils..." His eyes narrow as he looks up. "There are symbols here for causing pain."

Meg's smile is unrepentant.

"Restraints can be broken," she says. "But just a little pain, constantly, day after day? Does wonders for sapping a guy's strength. You know that, Dean." She turns her head to smirk at him. "About keeping the pain _just_ bearable. That was one of Alistair's favourites."

Dean doesn't answer. After she killed half their childhood friends and kidnapped their dad he didn't think it was possible to loathe this demon more, but learning she'd apprenticed under Alistair too—that had really raised the bar of his revulsion. Partly it's because he hates the idea of having anything in common with the bitch, even a torture he'd had no control over. But it's also because the darkest parts of Dean now look at Meg and wonder - perhaps she'd _understand_ him, in a way no one else can. Perhaps, deep down, they are the same kind of monster. Perhaps there's something of himself in that ugly, depraved soul. And, against all his better judgement, Dean feels a _pull_ to her because of that and it shakes him to his core, filling him to the brim with self-loathing whenever they share air.

"Why?" Sam presses, voice a low 'do not fuck with me' growl, eyes murderous. "Why the sudden need for magic binding and sedation anyway? When we left him he was..."

_A drooling vegetable?_ Dean fills in.

"...he was coping," Sam finishes. "Some kind of meditation, I figured. Something to block Lucifer out. What changed?"

Meg shrugs.

"What am I? An angel whisperer? I got no clue," she answers. "Gotta admit though..." Her smile snakes back. "Way I see it, this is an improvement. The coma-thing wasn't exactly a thrill. Now? Well, see, the drugs don't shut his Hell out. They just keep him drowsy. So now he talks sometimes. Can't fight it like he used to, I guess." She closes her eyes and makes an uncomfortably pornographic noise in the back of her throat. "The way he screams out Daddy's name? Mmmm. Makes me all warm inside."

That does it.

"Get out," Dean orders, quiet but with menace, grabbing her by the arm before she's finished blinking her eyes open again and dragging her towards the door. " _Now_. And don't even _think_ about coming back unless we say so."

He bundles her outside before she can protest and shuts the door as hard as he can behind her without slamming the thing.

Taking a couple of slow breaths to calm himself, he spins round.

"Take that side," he says, waving at where Sam's already standing while he strides towards the needle taped to Cas' arm.

He yanks it out in one go, scowling at the tiny, dark red bubble of blood that forms in the spot. It's not much and as soon as whatever Meg's been pumping him with works its way out of Cas' system Dean knows the wound will heal. But that's not the point.

Across from him Sam's opening the straps over Cas' arms and legs, easing the angel's limbs over the mattress and away from the leather and metal once he's done.

Forcing his eyes away from the blood, Dean pushes the drip away—it's just a bag on a pole, no beeping machine to alert anyone outside to what they're doing thank god—and starts on the strap nearest him over Cas' upper arm.

They might not be able to help with Lucifer, but they can get Cas back to normal physically at least.

Back to his usual, almighty, Smitey McSmiterson self.

Dean stops.

Time must have sped up around him while he was standing there, because the next thing he knows Sam's bumping his shoulder.

"Dean?"

Blinking back to himself, Dean follows his brother's anxious frown to the leather strap still half undone in his hands. The last one. Just one more pull on the buckle and Cas is free.

Except he won't be.

Cas can never be truly free anymore.

Dean lets go, leaving the strap secure.

"What if she's right?" he mutters.

" _What?_ "

"He almost killed a guy, Sam. We can't... if this makes him safe—"

"This isn't making him _safe_ , Dean. This is _hurting_ him. This is torture."

He won't mean it to be personal, Sam wouldn't do that, but after Meg's gibe about Alistair's technique Dean can't help feeling defensive about his brother's use of the t-word here, blood rising up under his skin. Fuck, it's not like Dean's getting off on the idea or anything.

"Sam, he's _already_ being fucking tortured!" he hisses, nodding at Cas' wide-eyed, unseeing expression. "Honestly? What difference does a little more make if it's gonna protect people?"

The way Sam shakes his head, top lip curling in disbelief—almost disgust—isn't necessary. Dean knows how awful that sounded. He hadn't meant it to come out like that.

"Dean. Come on, man, you don't mean that."

"Well give me another option then!"

"He was fine on his own. For weeks."

"Yeah, until he wasn't. You really wanna risk that? Leave him unchecked like a... a fucking timebomb?"

Sam sighs.

"Why are you always so quick to write him off? He's our _friend_ , Dean. He did this for us. For _me_. We can't just leave him here to suffer."

Which is exactly what's been eating at Dean since they left. Filling him with all those conflicting emotions Cas has always found a way to shake loose in him, no matter the distance and the walls Dean tries to put between them.

Because despite it all, Cas _is_ their friend. _His_ friend. Still. After everything he did. And that's the part Dean can't shake. Because Cas _lied_ to him, he _betrayed_ them, he became the very thing they'd stood side by side and fought against. For that, _shouldn't_ he deserve to suffer, shouldn't he deserve the pain?

And yet -

No. It's still too much. Dean can't make sense of how he feels about this any more than he could before, when Cas was dead and gone.

So he does what he always does when this happens.

He gets mad.

"Yes we can," he snaps. "We have to. Because there is literally _nothing_ we can do for him. I checked out all the options for _you_ , remember? And the only one out there was him. Hell, even if we do fix our other problems and find time to try and help him the chances are we'll never—"

He cuts off abruptly, swallowing hard as a familiar lump claws its way up his throat. Because that's the worst of it, isn't it? The ever-present fear that Cas will _never_ recover. That he'll be this way forever. Trapped in this hellish limbo of being lost but not lost, here but not here.

"We shouldn't have come here. It was stupid. This is stupid."

Turning without so much as a second look, Dean marches towards the door. He's made it less than two steps when one of Sam's giant paws grips vice-like round his arm, holding him back.

"So what, that's it? You're just gonna leave?"

Sam's pissed now and Dean's glad of it. It's always more satisfying having something for his own anger to play off.

"What's the point in staying, huh, Sam? Tell me," Dean counters. "We can't _do_ anything. And all _he's_ gonna do is lie there, maybe talk some crap once in a while, while we sit here watching him lie there, listening to him chat with a devil who isn't even freaking there. It's a _waste of time_."

"We could talk to him," Sam suggests, earnest enough to keep going over Dean's snort of laughter. "People do it to coma patients all the time, Dean. We don't know what's going on with him. Obviously it's different to how it was for me. Being an angel, I don't know, maybe it means he can handle it better. For all we know he can hear us and maybe that will help. Knowing we're here for him."

Sam's anger gives way to pleading as he warms to the idea and Dean's almost tempted. It might be weird, but would it really be so hard to sit here for an hour or so and talk? Read something, maybe?

That's what the chicks on Doctor Sexy did when the Doc ended up in a coma that time back in season three - that two-parter where he'd saved Doctor Piccolo from Crazy Moustache Guy, the one who'd attacked the place with a pistol stashed in his plaster cast. Sexy Chick of the week had woken the good doctor up the following episode by reading a poem—Shakespeare or some shit—and wouldn't it'd be worth the embarrassment of that to see some awareness back in Cas' faded blue eyes?

Dean dares a glance back at the bed, but Cas is as unfocused as before. Now with a thin trail of drool glistening on his chin.

Because this is real life, not some crappy soap opera.

And Dean can't afford that kind of hope.

"Good luck with that," he tells Sam, pulling his arm away.

"God, Dean, really?" Sam calls, incredulous, after him as he turns. "After everything he's done you can't even give him that? Don't you care about him at all?"

The unfairness of that stops Dean, fingers freezing round the door handle. But he sets his jaw instead of replying. Because yeah, why not? Let Sam think he doesn't give a damn. Maybe if he gets good enough at pretending it'll start to be true. That's what Frank suggested after Bobby and, okay, Dean's kind of sucked at the 'fake it till you make it' thing so far, but maybe this time -

But something in his pause must have caught Sam's attention because his voice softens as he continues.

"Or is it the opposite?" he asks. "You're not running because you don't care, you're running because you _do_... So much you can't stand it. _Too_ much. Maybe... maybe more than you think you should."

There's an odd catch to that last part.

It sounds uncomfortably like a light bulb flicking on.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean mutters.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Sam presses, as enthusiastic as always when working through a hunch. "Face it, if it was me lying there you'd stay as long as it took, I know you would. But you barely even talk about Cas. Just getting you in here was like pulling teeth. Why? What makes him so different? It can't just be the angel thing." Sam's at his side now and Dean's fingers are white around the handle. He'd walk out if he didn't know Sam would only follow him until he's said his piece. "You talk about him being family, how he's one of us. But I saw how you were after he died, Dean. The nightmares, the drinking, the way you bottled everything up. Still are... I know what it's like, to feel like that. I felt exactly the same, after Jess," Sam takes a breath and Dean readies for the final nail in his coffin. "Cas... He's more than just a brother to you. Isn't he?"

Dean flexes his fingers, restarting the blood flow.

"Call me when you're done here."

~*~  
  
It's an hour and a half later when Dean skulks back in, not nearly as much alcohol on his breath as he'd like.

Nothing's changed. Or, nothing that matters anyway. The room's still as Hammer Horror as ever, Cas giving his best waxwork impression to the ceiling. The only difference is he's clear of his restraints now. That and the extra chair on the far side of the bed, opposite the one closest to the door Sam's hunched over and looking dejected in.

He glances Dean's way as the door opens but doesn't say anything.

Dean doesn't either, just hovers awkwardly in the doorway, turning his head this way and that as he tries to muster up the courage to speak. _Oh hey_ —there's a small desk here next to the door, he notes idly. Chipped in places, but intact, with a bland, old-fashioned office lamp perched on top. That's nice. Sort of homey.

Or not.

"I think maybe you're right," Sam says. Dean startles at the unexpected break in the quiet, then quickly tries to cover it by making out he was scratching his neck all along. "He can't hear us. I talked almost non-stop for the first half hour but..."

Sam shrugs.

It's what Dean's been expecting, but the admission still settles over him with all the cheer of a rain cloud ready to burst.

"Yeah, well..." he offers, heading over to the empty chair and lowering himself down. "You never know."

Sam gives him half a smile, accepting the not-quite apology.

"So... bang any hot chicks while you were gone?" Sam asks after a moment and the air grows static with the implication, Dean's heart speeding up on instinct.

"Nah."

The silence stretches. And stretches. Until, finally, Sam breaks it with a nod. Caving to Dean's unspoken request and dropping the issue.

"Okay," is all Sam says.

"You?" Dean quips, trying for levity.

It makes Sam's lips twitch, so Dean counts it as a win, grinning back at him.

"Nah," Sam mimics. "Actually, there _was_ a girl. But she checked out, so..."

Sam gives a one-shouldered shrug, keeping his lopsided smile. Something about the way he does it makes Dean think there's more than a joke there, but his brother isn't forthcoming so Dean leaves the comment as it is. It seems only fair.

"They let me right in this time, no questions asked," Dean notes, to fill the silence more than anything. "Thought visiting hours would have been long over by now."

"Meg talked to the doctors," Sam answers. "I _still_ think she's got a hidden agenda in all this, something that'll bite us in the ass if we're not careful. But... whatever she told them, we can stay as long as we want."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

More silence drifts over them, both their eyes falling to Cas' face, down to the slow rise and fall of his chest.

He doesn't look scared, like Sam used to in the throes of some of Lucifer's worst taunts. He just looks... empty. If Dean didn't know better he might have thought the angel had left Jimmy's body behind, gone floating wherever angels did when they weren't in a vessel. But Dean can see smooth, unblemished skin where the mark from the drip had been after he pulled it out and he knows healing like that only happens with an angel in residence. Which means Cas is still in there. Somewhere.

"He say anything?"

Sam shakes his head again.

"You can barely hear him breathe," he answers. "Makes you wonder if Meg was yanking our chain about the screaming."

_That'd be nice_ , Dean thinks. Then despairs because they're _hoping_ a demon's lying to them now? That's how desperate they've become?

He reaches in his jacket and pulls out Bobby's flask. The squeak the cap makes as he unscrews it is a comfort in itself - an echo of the gruff, sometimes annoying, tone of its former owner.

Not enough on its own though, Dean thinks as he takes a swig. Then another when Sam declines the offer to share.

Still, the scotch warms him in a way none of the glasses he'd nursed in town had and the lack of judgement on Sam's face as he drinks makes Dean bold. He's speaking before he's even aware of having chosen to, for a moment disembodied and hearing his words from afar.

"Back when you were in Stanford," he starts, and the way Sam perks up, puzzled but attentive, almost makes Dean chuckle. He's like a hungry puppy, unsure if it's dinner time or not. "Dad and I worked a case in California. Real easy. Salt and burn. Two days and we were done... Except, word on the street was the landlord of this bar knew something about what killed Mom. So we stayed." Dean licks his lips, contemplating another sip. He decides against it. If he's really telling this story, he'll want some saved for later. "We went to the place, found the guy. But Dad was still keeping everything real close to his chest back then, you know? They holed up in a back room and I had to wait."

"Sounds like Dad," Sam notes, half exasperated, half fond. "I would have busted in anyway."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Dean nods, quirking a smile.

"Not you though."

"Not me," Dean agrees. "It wasn't so bad. There was pool to shoot. A couple of old arcade machines..." He takes a breath. "And there was... this guy..." Dean does take a swig there, trying to ignore the way Sam's eyes flare with interest, the way his heart starts to pound and his fight or flight instincts kick in. "Jason..." Dean bites his lip, surprised how little the memory's faded over the years. Hell, it's been lifetimes. But he can still see the guy, clear as day—dirty blonde hair bursting out of his ponytail, Black Sabbath T-shirt and black jacket covered in pins. He was two years older, cool and confident and everything Dean loved about life from head to toe. Of course Dean was smitten, whether he knew it or not. "He, err, he caught me getting my ass kicked on one of the machines and once he was done _laughing_ at me, the asshole, he showed me how to hit a top score."

Dean drops his hands between his legs, Bobby's flask hanging loose in his fingers, and looks to the distance. Very carefully he pushes his unease away and allows a fondness for the memory to take over. It's been forever since he saw the good in that night and finding it again now tugs his lips up surprisingly high, easing away some of the lines that have seemed permanently etched on his brow these past weeks.

"We kicked if off right away. Watched the same films, liked the same music," he continues, laughing as the evening unfolds in his mind, warm and bright with nostalgia. "We pretty much owned the jukebox that night. Spent hours filling up the top scores with dirty names and innuendos."

"Sounds like you found a kindred spirit," Sam chuckles and any anxiety Dean has left about this melts away when he looks up to his brother's curious, kindly expression. He's a smart kid, he's probably worked out where this is going. But he's happy to let Dean get there his own way and Dean appreciates that.

"Something like that. And the best part? He was a fucking _local_. Tab at the bar and everything," Dean says, grinning some more. "Didn't have to buy a single drink that night, Sammy. _And_ the place did these kick-ass cheeseburgers. They had this special sauce, some kind of home-made recipe, I don't know, but it was to die for." Dean smacks his lips at the thought and takes another swig from the flask. "Anyway, um. Dad was out back for hours, way after closing, but somehow Jay and I got to stay. I thought it was because he worked there, I didn't realise till later he was... yeah, well. It was late and, not kidding, we were the only ones there. The whole bar, all to ourselves. Free access behind the counter. Jay just reached over and grabbed this fancy scotch. Pretty soon we were downing the stuff like there was no tomorrow. Fuck knows where and when the staff took off, I was too drunk to notice and it's not liked I'd have cared anyway. I wasn't out of it, right? Just rocking the right kind of buzz. So when the guy started getting a little... hands on, I was cool with it. He'd been sort of touchy-feely all night, I figured that was just how he was." Another swig. "Until he pushed me up against the pool table and kissed me."

That sort of hangs there between them for a while.

It's not something Dean's been anxious to revisit ever, considering what came after. Making it a shock to him just how _vivid_ the memory is.

"Kissed you, as in...?" Sam prompts. He tries to sound casual but Dean can see the way his brother's starting to shuffle in his chair, the way he does when he's impatient.

"Oh, full on," Dean clarifies, taking pity on the kid. He's waited long enough for this. "Tongue down my throat, hands on my ass."

"Wow..." Sam breathes, sucking in his bottom lip to bite back a laugh and he looks so adorably _young_ for the moment Dean thinks this was worth it just for that, to see that evidence of his baby brother in the man Sam's become. To know the kid who used to double over at his embarrassing big brother stories back in school is still there. "What - what did you do?"

"Freaked the fuck out, obviously," Dean answers. "Except it was so left field I couldn't even do _that_ right. I kept thinking of all that self-defence crap Dad taught us, you know? And how knowing five different ways to disarm a weapon didn't mean jack shit when it was a guy's tongue doing the attacking. I remember, god, I remember standing there like a fucking robot thinking - Jesus, Dad, you sure skipped the lesson on this one!"

Sam is laughing now. Quietly, but enough to make his shoulders shake.

"Oh, man -"

"Shut up!"

"I would have given _anything_ to see that!"

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. This was only a defining moment of my life, no big."

Dean's smiling too though. It's good to have the positive side to this back again. He's been ignoring it too long.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," Sam mutters, not sounding it in the slightest. "So, how'd you make him stop?"

"Didn't have to," Dean answers. "He was a good kid. He could tell something was wrong and backed the fuck off. Couldn't apologise enough. Man, if he said it once he said it a hundred times. 'He must have read me wrong, he didn't mean anything by it, was I okay? Did he _hurt_ me?' The whole nine yards. Damn..." Dean shakes his head, smirking at what came next. "In the end I kissed him back just to shut him up."

"No way!"

Dean lifts his eyebrows and nods his head yes.

"I told you I was kinda wasted, right? And he was being so good about it, it didn't seem fair to just write him off. I mean, I hadn't exactly been paying attention that first time, I just..." Dean chuckles. "I dunno, man, I thought he deserved a second chance."

"At sticking his tongue down your throat."

"Yeah," Dean grins, rolling his eyes. "That."

"Okay," Sam nods, leaning forward in his chair. "And?"

"And..." Dean takes a breath. Because this is it, his Big Secret, finally about to see the light of day. It's strangely less terrifying than he imagined. He waves a hand, like the admission is no big deal, and is surprised to find it really isn't. "And, okay, yes, I _liked_ it. Like, a lot."

Sam doesn't say anything, just settles back in his chair, nodding like he's just had all his theories on life confirmed. His smile stretches out and Dean doesn't know if he wants to slap him for being a smug bastard or bask in his brother's pride.

"Please don't feel the need to give all the gory details," Sam says eventually. "I get the picture."

His smile's so golden Dean doesn't want to lose it, but he can't leave the story unfinished. Not now. Even though his own grin's already starting to dim as the conclusion of it all floods back to him.

"No, you don't," he says quietly, dropping his gaze. He can see Sam shift in the corner of his eye, but knows his brother's 'it's okay you can talk to me' expression well enough without seeing it. "We, uh, we really went for it after that. I was... seriously getting into things, like, thinking about just how sturdy that pool table could be kind of into things. I thought that, yeah, this could be something I did. Maybe... maybe something I _was_."

If he thinks hard, he can still feel Jay's hands sliding under his T-shirt, can still remember the way his pulse quickened when he put his hands on the kid's face to draw him in like he'd done with all the girls who came before and felt the thrill of stubble there, the easy way they'd fit together.

But that's as far as it goes. As far as it ever has.

"Only... that's when Dad showed up." This needs another swig. Or maybe two, Dean decides, tipping his head back to get as much liquid fire down his throat as possible. "He wasn't just mad, he was... _crazy_. Had that unfocused look he used to get sometimes when he was ganking something really nasty, you remember?"

Sam nods, eyebrows knotting together, all trace of his smile gone.

"He yanked Jay away from me like he was a fucking wendigo or something, screaming his head off - _what the hell do you think you're doing? get the fuck away from my son!_ On and on. And Jay's looking at me with these terrified eyes, too scared to say anything but begging me to help him, to say it's okay, that I wanted it." Dean drops his head, ashamed. This has always been the worst part. "And I want to. God, I want to. I want to step up and say 'Dad, stop it, he's cool, it's fine, what are you doing?' But..." He shrugs. "It's _Dad_... so I just stand there and I don't say a damn thing... Next thing I know Dad's dragging me outside, muttering all the way to the car, calling Jay some fucking _shameful_ things, names I'd never even heard of some of them. And when we're finally at the car he stops and he spins me round and he says 'Dean, don't you _ever_ let anyone take advantage of you like that. You're _better_ than that, do you understand?'"

When Dean glances up he finds Sam staring at him, eyes narrow, dark with shock and hurt and confusion. Yeah, he knows the feeling.

"Well I don't understand, not a bit," Dean continues. "But by that point I'll say anything if it'll get him to calm the fuck down. So I give him my best 'yes, sir,' he shoves me into the car and off we go..."

"Shit. Dean, I -" Sam stutters. "I know Dad could be a dick about things, but I never thought -"

"I know what you're thinking. But it wasn't that," Dean cuts in. "I know what it sounds like and I thought it too. Next twenty miles we never said a word and at the time it was right up there as one of the worst moments of my life. I couldn't _believe_ that Dad might actually..." Dean cuts off, shaking his head. He can't even say it, it's so absurd. John Winchester might have been straight-laced about a lot of things, narrowed minded on occasion, but the last thing he'd been was intolerant. "But after the most awkward start to a car journey _ever,_ he finally started talking again," Dean continues. "He didn't apologise. You know Dad, that wasn't his style. But he explained a few things. Turned out that landlord he'd been speaking to all night? Jason's dad. Also turned out the guy was a total sleezebag and a conman. Didn't know shit about Yellow Eyes _or_ Mom, but he spent the night wasting Dad's time and working as much money out of him as he could. When Dad finally caught wise he went kinda nuts. You know how desperate he was for any information on Mom's killer back then. Seeing Jason with me like that, well, he jumped to all the wrong conclusions..."

Sam breathes out what sounds like relief.

"Okay..." he nods. "Okay, so yeah. Still an overreacting dick. But at least he's the dick I remember. It can't have been easy being screwed around like that. I mean, I never saw it at the time, but he put a lot of pressure on himself, to find out about Mom. To help me."

Hearing Sam talk about John this way is both heart-warming and painful for Dean. Because as happy as he is to know Sam has learnt to sympathise with their dad like Dean always has, part of Dean can't help resenting Sam for not feeling like that more often when the guy was alive.

"Yeah..." he mutters. "Probably didn't help it had just turned November as well, the anniversary of Mom's death was the next day."

"Ouch."

"Uh-huh."

There's a pause. Sam's _literally_ on the edge of his seat now, waiting for more, but as far as Dean's concerned that's... kind of _it_.

"But... I don't get it," Sam starts, hesitant. "If you knew he was mad at the dad, not you, or Jason, or... you know... why is this the first I've heard about all this? I've never seen you so much as _look_ at another guy.

"Yeah, well..." Dean shrugs. Up till now it had felt good getting this out. Liberating. Now though, the discomfort he's been waiting for since the start is beginning to show itself. "I just... I stayed away from guys after that anyway. Just in case, you know?"

Sam sucks in his lips, like he's trying to reign in all the ways he wants to chew Dean out over this.

"Dean..." he starts, exasperated.

"I _know_ , Sam, okay?" Dean sighs. "But he just - he never said anything. About what he'd caught us doing. Not one way or the other. Not then, not ever. Not even in passing. And I thought... better safe than sorry -" Sam makes a startled noise in the back of his throat and Dean pushes on over the inevitable bitchface. "I _know_ , alright? But the way I saw it, it's not like I was losing out. I mean..." He struggles for a moment to think of a way to explain, holding up a finger to focus Sam's attention when a suitable one comes to mind. "Okay, so the occasional piece of cake might turn my head. But whatever. I still got pie."

Sam rolls his eyes.

"And that worked for you?" he asks.

"Yes!" Dean insists, and it's not defensive, it's fact. "Like a charm. You've seen me the morning after enough times, I ever look _unsatisfied?_ " Sam dips his head to the side, conceding the fact. "No. Of course not. There's plenty flavours of pie to go round. And it's not like I planned to make myself a one-pie kind of guy."

"Yeah, um, can we drop the dessert analogy please?" Sam interrupts. "I get it. Girls girls girls. But Dean, didn't you ever wonder? Like maybe you were missing out? Weren't you ever tempted? Especially after Dad... I mean, when he wasn't there anymore."

"Sure, I wondered," Dean nods. "Was I tempted to try again? Fuck yeah. But..." He shrugs again. "Girls were easier. And then your whole ESP thing kicked off and we had bigger problems. Then after that... after Alistair?" Dean swallows. Here comes another thing Sam must have suspected, but he's never spoken about openly before. He's come this far though - might as well go all in. "The whole guy-thing didn't seem all that appealing anymore anyway..." Meeting Sam's eyes after that finds his brother's gaze all too knowing, in ways Dean isn't ready to think about because fuck, if he thought Alistair was bad, what kind of tricks might the _devil_ have—? He hurries on. "At least until..."

_Damn_. This is what his sudden trip down memory lane has been about, but now he's reached the conclusion Dean finds he still can't quite make that final step. He's been holding back so long the denial's second nature.

Lucky for him, this time he's got Sam there to carry him the rest of the way.

"Until Cas," his brother completes.

Dean bites his bottom lip. And nods.

It's stupid, but he suddenly can't look at Sam. The guy's been perfect the entire conversation, but Dean's insecurities about this seem to have decided to rear their heads again all at once and he's overwhelmed by the idea Sam will look at him different forever now. That this confession has changed things between them, irreparably.

Then Sam takes a breath and Dean finds he's his holding his, waiting on tenterhooks for his brother's judgement.

"You should tell him," is what Sam says, making Dean blink up at him with a frown, because _what?_

"What?"

"How you feel. You should tell him," Sam repeats and his face is clear and judgement-free, not even a hint of reprehension. Because, Dean realises, he doesn't see anything to judge.

The awesomeness of that almost makes up for how dumb Sam's suggestion is.

"I—Sam—I don't even know how I—I don't even know what that is," he mutters back.

"So tell him _that_ ," Sam insists, waving at hand at where Castiel continues to lie between them in invitation.

Dean doesn't follow the gesture. Yeah, last thing he wants to be reminded of just now.

"Why?" he asks instead, fixing his eyes on Sam.

" _Because_ ," Sam tells him firmly. "He should know. Maybe he'd _want_ to. Maybe he feels something _back_. Did you ever think of that? God knows he acts like it most of the time. What did he say? 'Profound bond'?"

Dean shakes his head, giving a quick, dismissive laugh. Stupid angel talk. Cas wouldn't know innuendo if it took him up the ass.

"He didn't mean it like that."

"You sure?"

"Sam..." Dean sighs, long and deep. Their 'profound bond' might have been a misnomer, but there are other things. Stuff Dean's always been too much of a coward to draw the necessary conclusions from. _I'm doing this for you, Dean. I'm doing this **because** of you. _Maybe if he'd paid a little more attention... But he hadn't. So. "Sam, even if we... if there was... anything we _might_ have had? It's gone now."

"You don't know that."

That's a line deserving of a bitchface if ever Dean's heard one. He hasn't got his down to the art form Sam's crafted over the years —mostly he just fashions an angry scowl and that seems to do the trick—but he goes all out this time.

"The guy set himself up as _god_ ," he tells Sam. "He broke you, trashed half the world and we _both_ tried to kill each other..." He stares Sam down. Okay, he's exaggerating, but not by much and it gets his point across. "I'm pretty sure the spark's gone, Sam."

Sam nods.

"Tell him anyway," he says, talking over Dean's subsequent protests. "Dean, no, just listen. Do you know the last thing I said to Jess, before we hit the road after Dad and found that woman in white?" He pauses so the obvious 'no' can settle in Dean's mind. "I kissed her on the cheek and I told her I loved her."

Sam's eyes dim and Dean continues to marvel at how much his brother _must_ have loved this chick if her loss is still capable of hurting him like it does. A love he'd never seen until it was over, with a women he never knew and never would. Sometimes he wishes he could have met her, just once, before that night. A proper meeting with proper conversation, so he could tell her how thankful he is that she gave Sam the chance at something _good_ , something _pure_ , instead of the shit he'd got from everyone else. Even if it was only temporary.

"It was the perfect goodbye," Sam continues, softer. "Considering. The best anyone can hope for when you don't know it's your last. But when I look back on it all I can think is, it's _not enough_. I should have said so much more. _Done_ so much more and..." He swallows. Stops. Then his eyes bore into Dean. "I can't even imagine how it would feel to lose someone that important to me and not even have that. To think she might have died not knowing. _You need to tell him_ , Dean. Before it's too late."

Dean has no words for that. All he can think is _but Cas isn't dead and he's not gonna be_. Except, that's what he'd thought through the ritual in that lab and before, denying the angel's desperate plea for absolution because _no, Cas wasn't dying_ , once those souls were out of him he was gonna be fine. Because he's Cas and Cas is always fine.

Only, that's not such a sure thing anymore, is it?

His gaze drifts back to Cas' still body, the angel's expression as fixed and impassive as when they'd first walked in.

"What if it's already too late, Sammy?" he asks, his voice this strange, small thing he doesn't recognise.

Sam takes a sharp, aborted breath. Whatever assurances he'd been intending fading away into silence.

"I'll be outside," he whispers in the end, standing up.

He pauses before leaving, probably to give Dean an encouraging, bittersweet smile that's both tasteful and appropriate for the situation. But Dean wouldn't know. He doesn't look up.

A few seconds later Sam's crossing the room without another word, clicking the door in place behind him.

And Dean's alone. With Cas.

~*~

He doesn't know how long he sits there, following the shallow rise and fall of Cas' chest with his eyes. Just that it's long enough for his first attempt at giving this talking thing a shot to come out croaky.

He clears his throat and tries again.

"So..."

That's as far as he gets.

_Wuss. That the best you got?_

Invigorated with sudden purpose Dean caps Bobby's flask and gets to his feet. If he's going to do this he might as well commit.

"Okay," he nods, tucking the flask back inside his jacket and moving to Cas' side. "For the record, I still think this is stupid. But... since I'm here, right?"

He leaves a pause for a response he knows isn't coming.

"Cas..."

The next pause isn't intended. It's just been so long since he called the guy by name. The few times he'd got the chance when Emanuel angel-ed up had been too short and sweet for him to savour the moment, so this time he does. Because god, Cas is _right there_.

For that one moment the fact Cas can't, or won't, talk back doesn't even matter.

"Cas," he starts again, because he can. "If there's any chance you can hear me, I want - I need you to know I -"

He stops to lick his lips and it strikes him how very similar this is to the times he's been left to pour his heart out to a lifeless Sam. Fuck it, why is it always him who gets left behind?

"I want you to know... we're good."

It's not what he was going for and it's not what Sam was angling him to say. But it's true all the same, he realises as the words leave him.

"And I don't mean cos of what you did for Sam," he adds, and it's easier now he's started. All his thoughts and feelings about Purgatory and the whole damn mess coming together for the first time since the lake. Just like his confession about Jason, it's surprisingly painless. "You didn't have to do that, man. We could have - we'd have found -" No. There was no other way to save Sam. Dean had tried. "Okay. Okay so maybe it was the only option. But you didn't _owe_ us, you understand? I -"

Sighing, Dean runs a shaking hand through his hair.

"I know what I said, about how I couldn't get over what you did. But Cas, damn it, it's not that simple." He leans over the bed, one hand gripping the top bar of the headboard, and stares hard into Cas' eyes, willing a reaction. There's nothing. The guy doesn't even blink. _Freaking angels_. "I think -" he pushes on, trying not to let the vacant expression on his friend's face unnerve him. Cas has always been hard to read, this deadpan look isn't so different to normal... expect for how it really _really_ is, Dean can tell. "You told me it didn't matter, why I felt like that. And you know what? You were right. I thought - the way I felt - the way I _feel_ -" _I thought it was wrong. That it was weak. That I shouldn't_. "Cas, I think - I think, what I couldn't get over, what I can't let go -" Dean moves his hand from the bar, tracing the outline of Cas' face. "It's not what you did. It's just - it's just _you_..."

His fingertips touch the edge of Cas' hair, brushing it back from where it's fallen, usually flat, over the angel's brow. It's soft and dry, like down, and the skin Dean's hand gentles over feels warm. A contrast to the cold, unfeeling gaze Cas retains through the ministration.

"I - _fuck_."

Dean jerks his hand back and turns away, scraping his nails across his palm to try and contain the sudden explosion of fury crashing inside him. Fury at Sam for pushing him into this, fury at Cas for leaving him, _again_ , but most of all, fury at himself for thinking this would help anything. All it's done is left him more hurt and miserable than he was to start with.

He shakes his head as he glances back. He's done here, no question. But, _damn it_ , he's also sucked into the moment enough to feel he owes Cas a goodbye before he leaves. A goodbye that dies in the space between his parted lips when his gaze falls on nothing but a grey-coloured mattress with visible springs and unbuckled restraints.

"What the—?"

"I know it's you."

The low voice at his ear is such a shock it feels like he's jumping halfway to the ceiling as he spins round. His hip crashes into the bed as he does, shifting it a couple of inches across the plastic flooring, buckles on the open straps flapping noisily about.

Behind him are dazzling blue eyes. Light stubble on an achingly familiar face that's tilted to one side.

"Cas?"

"I know what you're doing," the angel tells him, staring through him, expression stern.

It's not what Dean's used to, being looked at by Cas like he doesn't matter. Like he's nothing. Okay, so maybe it's _true_. It's just not what he's _used to_. It reminds him of those awful moments after the angel finger-snapped Raphael into oblivion. When he renounced them all and called them ants. Cas but not Cas. But this—this _is_ Cas. Dean can see it at once. He might be dismissive, but there's a something about the way he holds himself—straight-backed like a soldier. All hard, restrained edges. Not the looser, puffed up way he'd lorded himself over them when he'd taken in the souls.

This is Cas.

Maybe not how Dean wanted him, but still—

"Um... good, that's... good," Dean mutters, buying himself time to figure what Cas is saying.

"It won't work," Cas adds, ignoring Dean. Or no, not ignoring. It's as if Dean hasn't spoken. "You won't provoke me this way again."

With that Cas waltzes past him like he's so much furniture, reaching a hand out to examine the loose bindings on the bed.

"I - what?"

More than anything Dean feels affronted. This is the guy who used to look at him like he was the sun itself, now discarding him like an old rag. It just doesn't sit right.

Not that the doe-eyes had fit any better. But Dean had grown accustom to that kind of deferral from Cas. Come to expect it. To have that change so abruptly, like when he'd thrown in with Crowley and sucked up Purgatory, is like being doused in icy water.

And it's always from one extreme to the next with Cas. All in or all out. Black or white. Though Dean can't really blame the guy for that when he's much the same. Shades of grey have always made him uneasy.

What he misses, Dean realises, is how they were at the beginning. Back when Cas had seen him, all of him, for exactly who he was. No judgement and no expectation either. No overblown faith in his character or abilities. Just the two of them coming to an understanding - mutual admiration and respect.

Emanuel had been the same.

Another reason, perhaps, that Dean had been so reluctant to kick-start his friend's memories.

Struck dumb by this new change in Cas, Dean blinks at him in silence as the angel runs a thumb over the scratchings on the inside of his straps.

"These should have held me. How -?" he mutters, seemingly to himself.

"Meg's idea," Dean explains, burning with the shame of it now and how he'd almost left Cas to suffer them. "We didn't know. If we had, we'd never would have... Look, I'm sorry. We couldn't stay, and there was no one else to watch you."

If Cas hears him he doesn't show it. He doesn't even look Dean's way. Instead he stares across the bed, eyes narrowing.

"Bobby...?"

"Shit," Dean gasps. Of course Cas would wonder about that—why he wasn't left in Bobby's care while Dean and Sam went leviathan hunting. He doesn't know. "You don't - Cas, Bobby's... Bobby's dead. We couldn't -"

But Cas is shaking his head, like he's trying to ward off an errant fly.

"No matter. But someone must have freed me. Why would they free me?"

Okay, they're officially talking cross-purposes here.

"Cas, it was us. _We_ freed you. Sam and Me. And we won't let Meg pull any more crap like that again, I promise."

Instead of reassuring Cas, this seems to distress him. He presses his eyes shut and takes deep breaths.

"No... I won't... I won't be taken in, not again..."

Shaking now, Cas staggers forward, only just managing to flatten his hands to the bed in time to stop himself toppling over. Even then he continues to sway and Dean rests a hand on his back to steady him.

"Hey. Take it easy."

This turns out to be a huge mistake because Cas leaps away from him, eyes popping open in panic.

"Don't touch me!" he yells.

Dean holds his hands up and backs away immediately. Frightened by how raw Cas sounds, the pleading in his eyes.

"Okay."

What is this? First he doesn't see him, now he's scared of him?

"You can't - you're not -" Cas babbles, backing up against the wall. Just like the first time.

The truth hits Dean like a sledgehammer. There's a _devil_ on the guy's shoulder, remember?

"Shit. Cas, no, I'm not -" Dean starts.

But Cas shuts his eyes again, as though hoping to block Dean out. He trembles against the wall and turns his head away and every part of Dean longs to reach out to him. He daren't, though, after how spectacularly that's backfired on him already.

"Not real. It's not real. It's not real," Cas starts to repeat, clinging to the words like a lapsing priest babbling Hail Marys. A litany Dean can tell he's spoken many times already. Cas' version of Sam's hand scar.

"I am, Cas. It's really me," Dean says, inching forward, voice low and quiet like he's coaxing a feral animal. Cas falters in his mantra. "Cas -"

"No! Stop it!"

Cas' eyes fly open and this time they're burning, wild with anger.

"Stop it! Dean isn't here. Why would he be here?" he rages, stopping Dean in his tracks. "He is out there fighting the evil _I_ brought into this world. He would not be here. I _know_ what this is. You're trying the opposite this time. Giving me what I want. Telling me what I want to hear. So you can wound me by taking it away. But I will not play this game. You aren't real. You can't touch me."

_The opposite this time?_

"This is what happened before?" Dean asks, pieces clacking into place in his mind like dominoes. "That guy you attacked. You thought it was me? What the hell did he say to you?"

Cas just scowls at him.

"The opposite..." Dean mutters, thinking it through. "That I'd never forgive you... That you deserve this."

What kills is that it's what Dean _has_ been thinking. It's no surprise Cas would have believed that of him.

He turns away, rubbing a hand across his face. Damn it. He's so close to having his friend back. How can he convince Cas what's real? Prove to him he's not Lucifer in Dean clothing? It was hard enough with Sam, that cut in his hand a lucky break more than anything. Cas, of course, is back to being the embodiment of physical perfection.

No plan jumps to mind so Dean just shrugs his shoulders and turns round, hoping something will come to him. He's got this far flying by the seat of his pants, why change the habit of a lifetime?

"Stay away," Cas warns. "Just... just leave. Leave me alone. I can't... I can't let him touch me, do you understand? I'll fight you. I'll fight him out of you, like I did before."

Dean stops to mull this over. For Sam, once he'd managed to class his visions of Lucifer firmly in the fictional category they had become an irritant, more or less, as opposed to a physical threat. Ultimately, the danger had been lack of sleep, not Lucifer himself.

But Cas doesn't need sleep. Whatever Lucifer does to torment him, his fear can't be of losing out on his regular eight hours. No, if the way he's keeping his distance is anything to go by, it must be of Lucifer, or what he perceives as Lucifer, being close to him. _Touching_ him. Or, touching a specific part of him.

He'd lost it when Dean touched his _back_. And his first instinct on taking Sam's visions had been to back against the wall, like he is now. As though trying to shield something. Something humans don't have.

Dean doesn't know the first thing about angel wings, beyond how fucking terrifying catching a glimpse of them can be. But maybe there's something about them, about what they're made of, Cas can't protect against? Like, they exist on some other plain of reality perhaps, somewhere between what's real and what isn't. Somewhere a fake Lucifer can take hold of them and twist, even when Cas knows he isn't there. Even when he knows there might be someone else behind the devil's face who isn't trying to hurt him at all.

Okay. Okay, Dean can use that. Cas needs to fight Lucifer out of him? Well let him. He's probably had a second beating from the guy coming for a long time.

He steps closer.

"Don't," Cas says, holding out a hand.

Dean takes another step, Cas' fingertips brushing his chest.

"Don't. Don't make me," Cas begs.

"It's okay, Cas," Dean tells him, wondering if he actually looks like the devil to Cas right now or what. Fuck, he hates not knowing. Not knowing what to do or how to help. It makes no difference if this pain is on his brother or his best friend, either is enough to tear him up inside. "Do what you gotta do."

Cas frowns at him, holding still.

So he needs a push. Well, Dean can do that too.

"Do it!" he snaps, slapping Cas' arm away.

The physical attack, minor as it is, is exactly the catalyst the angel needs. He backhands Dean hard across the face, making Dean stagger. The pain of it burns but fuck if it doesn't feel _good_ too. The beginnings of a climax that's been building between them for years. As thrilling as their altercation in that alley back when they were still brothers in arms, fighting a war _together_. Back in that golden age when they still _knew_ each other. Back before it all started to unravel.

"That all you got?" Dean taunts, grinning and cocky as he looks back. There's a metal tang in his mouth from where Cas must have busted his lip, but Dean practically savours the taste. If it'll take a little blood to get Cas back to him then so be it.

He didn't need the quip, Cas' fist is already swinging, hitting Dean's left temple then his right in quick succession. Before Dean can even process this Cas has him by the shoulders and slams a knee in his stomach, knocking the wind out of Dean's lungs in a rush.

Dean doubles over, gasping, but he's barely taken a breath when Cas socks him in the jaw.

The force throws Dean off balance and he topples backwards, shoulder blades hitting the edge of the bed and sliding down. The bed gets pushed back from the pressure, moving across the floor with an ear-splitting screech, while Dean falls the rest of the way, head finding the ground with white-hot thunk that leaves his vision spotty.

"Enough!" Cas roars, dropping to his knees beside Dean's spread-eagled form and yanking him up by the collar. "Enough pretence. Show yourself!"

He twists Dean round, sliding him up against the wall and punching Dean into the plaster a couple of times for good measure. Dean can already feel a mother of a bruise forming round his left eye that's going to be a hell of a shiner no mistake and he's blinking away something wet from his right, a gash above his eyebrow maybe.

And fuck, this is Cas _holding back_. Like Meg said, he's got the power to snap Dean's neck with a thought if he wanted to, but he's doing his best to minimise the damage. In case Dean's real. In case he's innocent.

Well, he's one of those.

"I said show yourself!" Cas demands, grabbing Dean's jacket roughly in both hands and shaking so hard Bobby's flask drops out of Dean's inner pocket.

The sound of it clattering away from them across the floor seems to distract Cas because he glances towards the container with a frown, following the last part of its impromptu journey with his eyes and fixing his gaze there. Long enough for Dean to catch his breath.

"Cas..." he wheezes. He doesn't have a follow-up, but he's starting to think maybe he should. That maybe this plan isn't as foolproof as he first thought.

"No!" Cas snaps back, turning from the flask like lightening. "Stop it. _Please_. _Change._ Be yourself. Be anyone but _him_. Change... Change..."

His voice breaks towards the end, turning breathy and strained. He shakes Dean again but it's pathetic compared to his last attack. Dean can see this is starting to get to him, the constant uncertainty about the world around him bringing the same turmoil it had to Sam.

Frightened, frustrated tears spring to the angel's eyes and wow. That's a first. Dean's never seen the guy cry before. For all he knows Cas never has, not in all the eons of his existence.

And all Dean can do is watch on, helpless to stop it. His one plan failing. Utterly.

And isn't that how it's always been? He failed to stop Sam raising Lucifer, after Cas gave everything to help him. Failed to stand up to Michael, leaving Cas to sacrifice himself rather than watch their defeat. Failed to get through to Sam in time to stop Lucifer blasting Cas to pieces. Failed to keep in touch with his friend after Cas' returned to Heaven. Failed to see how badly Cas needed him through his fight with Raphael.

Is he just doomed to let this guy down? Is that all they can ever be to each other—one disappointment after another?

"I can't, Cas, I - I can't change," Dean tries and a bark of laughter escapes him after because the words seem to resonate far beyond the situation. "That's always been our problem, huh?"

Cas' face creases up and Dean can't tell if he's about to snarl or cry for real. Then his eyes grow unfocused, head tilting to where Bobby's flask is still resting, like he's listening to words Dean can't hear.

When he blinks next there's an awareness in his gaze that was absent before. And when he searches Dean's face a glimmer of something flashes in his eyes.

"I - Dean?" he chokes.

"Yeah," Dean says at once. Gentle. Encouraging. "Yeah, Cas. It's me. It's just me."

The hold on him slackens and Cas lifts a trembling hand to Dean's face. Dean keeps still, not wanting to interrupt this first sign of recognition in his friend, but when Cas' fingers press bluntly against the tender skin above his eye he can't help wincing.

"Oh..." Cas gasps, eyes locking on to Dean's in way that makes Dean giddy with relief because yes, _this_ is the look he remembers. This is Cas seeing and knowing his soul and not looking away. The eyes are duller than they used to be, but no less beautiful for that and beautiful? Did he just think beautiful? "Oh, Dean. I didn't..."

"I know," Dean says, grabbing Cas' wrist when he tries to jerk away. Because he can't let Cas go now. Not when he's finally starting to come back. "I know, Cas."

"I—I c-can't tell, Dean," Cas stammers. "He's—He's everywhere. No matter w-where... I hide myself inside this vessel - deep, deep inside. But no matter how far I go he f-finds me. He always finds me."

Pulling his wrist free Cas ghosts his fingers round Dean's brow, eyes flicking over the right side of Dean's face which is now tight and sticky with congealed blood.

"I did this," Cas breathes. "I'm sorry."

Dean shakes his head. Not just because this one's not on Cas, not at all, but because they are so fucking beyond apologies.

"No. I asked for it," he says firmly, not taking his eyes off Cas' even for an instant. Afraid that breaking contact will also break this fragile link to reality Cas has established. "Not one of my better ideas..."

He quirks his lips, wincing as he does because—ow—he'd forgotten his top one was split at the corner. But Cas doesn't return the smile. His eyes are starting to brim over and little hiccupping sounds escape his lips.

It's so out of control for Cas, unlike anything Dean's seen in him before, it's almost more unnerving than when he was comatose. Than when he was god. Because this is something that, through everything—a crisis of faith, an apocalypse and a civil war—Cas has _never done_ before. This is Cas _breaking_. Overcome and about to lose it in a very real, perfectly human way.

And it's a shock because Dean didn't think Cas capable of that. The dude's a fucking Vulcan—dabbling in human emotion from time to time, but ultimately smooth, unruffled and untouchable. Beyond Dean in every way.

But now here Cas is falling apart right in front of him. Here they _both_ are, battered and broken and _needing_. Needing _each other_. Like they have done all along, Dean just never saw it. Because he never thought a freaking angel could ever be on his level, or need propping up once in a while as much as the next guy.

The understanding breaks something in Dean and all those walls he'd put in place to keep Castiel separate, to keep him _other_ , come crashing down. Spurred on by some deep, primal instinct telling him to nurture, to _protect,_ he wraps an arm about the angel's shoulders and tugs Cas roughly, fiercely, towards him. Cas fits easily in the embrace and buries his face in Dean's chest, muffling a sob there.

"It's okay," Dean tells him, winding his other arm about Cas' waist as more sobs wrack his friend's body. The thinness of the hospital gown means Dean can feel right the way to Cas' skin, which should be awkward. The guy's practically naked in his arms. But Dean can't bring himself to give a damn when Cas clutches him so desperately. Gratefully. Fingers twisting and twisting in Dean's shirt like he's drowning and Dean's a lifeline. So Dean takes it, gathers Cas up and holds him tight. "Shhh. Shhh, Cas. It's okay. I'm here. It's gonna be okay. It's gonna be okay."

That's how Sam finds them both moments later when he and a random guy in scrubs burst in. Dean whispering soft words to Cas' brow, the two of them rocking lightly as Dean tries to ease his friend's tremors.

Sam is surreptitiously reaching inside his jacket for some kind of weapon as he enters and it takes Dean a moment to figure why. But, of course, the sound of their fight must have travelled outside. Thinking about it, it's a wonder no one came in sooner.

Both Sam and the nurse stop when they see the tableaux, Random Guy blinking in shock, while Sam relaxes.

Pulling his hand away, Sam lifts an eyebrow at Dean, concern—at the dried blood no doubt - and relief—at seeing Cas conscious again - fighting for dominance in his eyes.

Dean gives his brother a quick nod while also squeezing Cas' shoulder, keeping Cas pressed against him so this distraction won't trigger more trauma. Trying to say without words that he's got this. That no one should even fucking _think_ about touching his angel right now except him.

Because he's awesome, Sam gets it right away, nodding back and even managing a light smile. Then he's turning to the nurse and muttering something, shepherding the guy back outside and leaving Dean and Cas to themselves.

Dean doesn't try to force anything, he just lets whatever Cas needs to work through play itself out. Let's Cas claw at him and whimper, or whisper 'sorry' every so often into the dip of his collarbone. It's not Dean's job to fight his friend's demons for him. Dean's not sure he even could. He just has to _be here_ through the battle - to let Cas know he's not alone, that however dark it gets he's got someone waiting for him on the other side, that he's got somewhere he can be _safe_.

So Dean just holds him, making a protective circle with his arms and keeping Cas secure within it.

After a while, it's hard to say how long since Dean's not counting and doesn't care, Cas stills and sags against him, body relaxing suddenly and all at once. Dean panics a little because he can't tell if this is because his friend's calmer or simply exhausted. Or worse, sinking back into his, apparently self-defensive, comatose state.

"You still with me, Cas?" Dean whispers.

There's a long pause that has Dean's stomach dropping. But then, finally, a response.

"Yes," Cas says, voice quiet and raw. "I think. It's hard. I... I have no grounding in reality."

Cas twists in his arms, lifting his head, and Dean shifts to accommodate. He's reluctant to let the angel go completely, so he just loosens his hold enough for Cas to move.

There are tear tracks down Cas' cheeks which is just - there aren't words. But while the sight horrifies, Dean also feels a strange, unexpected relief. Because it makes Cas real in a way Dean's not sure he's ever fully appreciated before.

And above the stains Cas' eyes shine a clearer blue than they have in a long time.

Slowly, Cas stretches an arm between them, fingers hovering above Dean's forehead. He takes a breath then presses down, his touch delicate but firm, and Dean feels a familiar warmth flow from the angel's fingertips and down his body. He feels his eye and the cut above his eyebrow tingle as crushed blood vessels and broken skin knit back together, the tightness over his face clearing as the crusted blood there disappears.

"Yes," Cas says, lowering his arm. "I know you now." Dean's gratified to hear an echo of his friend's old, steady rumble return to Cas' voice. "But I will lose you again, soon," Cas continues. "I can only fight him for so long. Eventually he'll take you from me, like he takes everything."

"He won't," Dean insists. "You just gotta hang in there, man."

But Cas shakes his head, softly and sadly.

"I can't. I can't do it, Dean. I - I'm not strong enough."

A fresh tear splashes free from one eye, sliding down the same path mapped out by all the others before it and Dean watches its journey past Cas' nose and the swell of his upper lip in helpless silence.

Cas doesn't look afraid anymore, just tired. Resigned. And ashamed. Dean would know that last one anywhere - he's felt it chewing its way through his own gut enough times.

Unable, or unwilling, to hold Dean's gaze, Cas flicks his eyes away, drawing them back to the fallen hipflask. He stares at it, unseeing, for a moment. Then his eyes seem to latch onto something beside it and grow a fraction wider, his body tensing all over.

"Hey," Dean calls, because no, Lucifer is not crashing this party. Not now. Not yet. Preferably not ever, but Dean's not so naïve as to think _that's_ on the cards. "Cas." Cas makes no response so Dean tries again. "Cas." Still an unwavering focus on the space above the flask. " _Castiel_ , look at me!" Dean snaps and that does the trick. Cas turns his head, slowly, as though waking from a dream. "Forget about the other crap, okay?" Dean tells him. "I'm what's real. You fix your eyes on me." He places both hands on Cas shoulders and grips tight. "I'm not going anywhere."

Blinking and bewildered, Cas shakes his head.

"Why?" he breathes, expression focusing into a frown. "Why are you even here?"

"Because..." Dean starts. Then promptly stalls. Fuck Sam. How can he tell Cas something he doesn't even understand himself?

"You shouldn't be here," Cas continues. "What I did... I'm not... I don't d-"

"Shut up," Dean snaps, shaking him because he sees where this is going and it's nowhere good. "Don't you _dare_. You are _not_ giving up, you understand?"

"It's not giving up," Cas answers, matter-of-fact. "I am merely... facing facts."

"No," Dean counters over him. "No. Fuck that, Cas. When I was in Hell, I was full on black-eyed and _loving_ it, remember? Don't pretend I wasn't. But you - you pulled me out anyway. You pulled me out and you patched me up and cleaned me till I was shining and you can't tell me that was just about the mission, that it was because of all the brainwashing your dick frat brothers put you through. I _remember_ the way you looked at me that first day, what you said..."

That moment is still so clear, etched in Dean's memory in a way Jason will never be, complete with surroundsound and Technicolor. Cas before Dean knew him, with that gaze, deeper than the ocean, seeing all the way into Hell and the twisted, depraved thing Dean had become. Seeing it, and asking _what's the matter?_ As if being a demon in all but name _didn't_. As if Dean was still _worth_ something, despite it all.

"You don't think _you_ deserve to be saved?" Dean finishes, while Cas presses his lips together and swallows, looking wrecked by the words.

"I... I never understood," Cas whispers. "Why you resisted the idea so thoroughly... I do now."

He starts to blink, hard and fast, and Dean can't take it anymore, cupping Cas' face in both hands.

"Yeah," he murmurs, rubbing dry and drying tears away. His hands aren't exactly pristine, his thumbs leaving faint smudges over Cas' pale and clammy cheeks. But at least it's an improvement, he thinks, to what came before. "You're part of the club now alright..."

And there's a dark and twisted part of Dean that's actually _grateful_ for that. He wonders if that's how his dick of a self felt when all the angels left in that messed up future he'd glimpsed, courtesy of Zachariah. When that stoner Cas he'd met there started his descent into hippydom, falling similarly low, albeit in a rather more physical way, to how Cas is now.

The thought frees another memory—a circle of girls, but a surprisingly intimate wink his way—and it occurs to Dean for the first time that he might have fucked Cas in that future. More than once maybe.

Then it occurs to him how very very close the two of them are in the present. How he's still stroking gentle lines over Cas' cheekbones, even though the angel's skin and eyes cleared some time ago.

And Cas' skin is warming under his touch, his breathing growing deep and even and hot against Dean's lips, his gaze searching. That harpooning blue penetrates, like always, holding Dean in place, but the control Dean's always found there, the purpose, is lacking. Cas' eyes _yearn_ as much as invade, not simply seeing and accepting but asking, begging, for something _back_. Like he had in that ring of fire. Like he had when Crowley took Lisa and Ben.

Tentative hands reach up and brush their fingertips over Dean's wrists and knuckles and Cas' gaze turns questioning, a few soft, sweet lines forming across his brow. The look asks the same questions running through Dean's mind. What's he doing? Why doesn't he let go? Why touch Cas like this anyway—warm and tender, like a lover? Then there's something more, a need that burns behind Cas' eyes and sounds in the way he stutters his next breath, asking for something Dean's not sure Cas even understands or ever did.

But Dean does. Oh god, finally, he does.

And for a fraction of a second he leans in, putting them as close to the edge of this precipice as they've ever been.

Old habits, though.

It's not denial that draws Dean away this time, at least, making him drag his hands back with a sigh and fall against the wall. It's plain, old-fashioned fear. Pure and simple.

"Listen, Cas," he mutters, dropping his head so he won't see Cas' reaction. And he's never had the balls to face the guy after moments like these, has he? Even when he wouldn't admit to himself what it was all about. Jason's final, stricken expression swims across his vision and Dean thinks that, yeah, there's some Psych 101 reasoning there. He always has been a slave to his past. "We, Sam and I," he hurries on. Subject change stat. "We're gonna find a way to fix you. I swear."

He looks up for the promise because that part's important. He needs Cas to know he means it.

Cas' expression is unexpectedly serene. But then, this _is_ the guy who stays impassive through almost everything, porn and boners included.

Or maybe he doesn't realise enough about what just happened to feel rejected.

Maybe it wasn't what he'd wanted from Dean at all. Maybe Sam's wrong. There's nothing here.

The pain Dean feels at the thought is raw and unbidden. But he swallows it down. There are more pressing matters to deal with than girly crap like hurt feelings.

"You have greater concerns, Dean," Cas objects, as though reading his mind. Although he's dismissing himself as opposed to Dean's emotions, of course. "The leviathan—"

"Yeah, well we'll take those assclowns out too," Dean tells him. And it's funny, that after months of being all about Dick - as Sam would say - he can relegate the bastard and his lackeys so easily to second place on his agenda.

Cas purses his lips, harsh lines pinching the skin between his eyes.

"You shouldn't have to," he says with some of his old prissiness. "They are my... mess. My fight."

That Dean can understand.

"Yeah," he nods. "Yeah, I get that. But Cas, there is no way you can take even one of those big-mouthed bastards like this."

He nods at Cas' loose-fitting gown, encompassing the wider implications in the gesture, which makes Cas grimace and turn his head with a hiss of frustration. The reaction makes Dean's lips flicker in one corner. Because this is Cas as he used to be. The soldier. Brave and loyal and never willing to back down from a fight. Of course he wants to be back on the battlefield, back where he knows what to do and is the best at what he does.

"I never meant to place this burden on you," Cas adds after a moment, the words coming out harsh with residual anger, face still tight with it as he turns back. "Another battle... it was the very _last_ thing I wanted for you, Dean. You have to believe me."

Dean nods again.

"Yeah. Yeah I do."

The answer must satisfy something in Cas because he relaxes a little. Which makes Dean almost wish he'd lied, because as the fire of his friend's anger dies it paves the way for his misery to return.

"What you said," Cas starts, quieter. "About Bobby... is it...?"

"Yeah," Dean confirms tersely. Cas needs to know, but that doesn't mean they have to dwell. Thinking about Bobby _still_ knots him up inside. "He's... he's gone."

"A leviathan?" Cas asks, a broken kind of hope in his voice.

There's a moment where Dean wishes he could tell him no. That it was a standard hunt, the kind all hunters die of in the end and nothing to do with Castiel at all. But of course he can't.

"Their fucking leader," he bites out instead and maybe there's a little pride there. That Bobby was too badass for just any old ancient evil to take him out.

Cas drops his gaze to the ground.

"Sorry is... a very inadequate word," he mumbles to his knees.

"You didn't kill him, Cas."

"I may as well have. I opened the way for these monsters." When Cas flicks his eyes up again it's in challenge, as though he's _daring_ Dean to contradict him. _Wanting_ to castigate himself. "You can't deny that, Dean. Don't insult me by belittling my sins."

"Fine," Dean bites back in kind, glad to see the spark returning to his friend, at least, and happy to fan it. "I won't. If you stop treating me like I'm a fucking saint in all this. We've both opened doors we shouldn't have, Cas. And we've both paid the price for it."

In direct opposition to Dean's request, Cas draws a shaky breath and turns his gaze away, the slump of his shoulders telling Dean this is in deference not defiance.

"You didn't open yours willingly," Cas starts, almost petulant and fuck this shit, Dean is _done._

"Oh, Jesus, _enough_ , okay?" He throws a hand up to help vent his frustration. "Enough with the 'mine is bigger than yours' crap. So you screwed up. Get over it!"

Cas blinks back to him, dumbfounded, through this outburst.

"You know it's not that simple."

"Then _make it_ ," Dean insists. "Because we've got enough to deal with without having to hold your hand while you work through your issues."

It's not strictly a lie - they _do_ have a mountain of crap on their plate. But despite it, Dean knows that after today he'd be more than willing to hold Cas as long as he needed. Longer. It's just, there's only so much of this kind of chick-flick heart-to-heart Dean can take without his masculinity rebelling.

"I didn't ask you to come here!" Cas growls, and the way it puts a healthier flush into his cheeks than he's shown since Dean got here makes Dean call this a success. "And you know I would fight beside you if I could!"

"So what? You expect me to blame you for that?" Dean counters, secretly ecstatic at how well this is clearing the air between them. "To hate you for choosing to save my brother?" This brings Cas up short and he sits back on his haunches, aggressive stance fading. "I can't be anything but _grateful_ to you for that. So I'm sorry if you're having trouble dealing with everything else you did, but I don't care. The only reason Sam's breathing right now is because of you and honestly? That's more important to me."

"Sam's life is more important than the hundreds I killed? The hundreds more the leviathans might?" Cas asks, no longer hostile, just curious.

"Than a bunch people who are either already dead or hypothetically dead?" Dean clarifies. "Yeah. Yeah, it is... I told you Cas, I'm no saint."

Cas regards him for a moment and Dean doesn't know if the return of his impassivity is a good thing or not.

"No," Cas says eventually. "I've known saints. They are much older. And boring."

The deadpan delivery is so spot on it takes Dean a second to register Cas is joking. But when he does the laughter that bubbles out of him is the sweetest Dean's known in a long time. Rivalling his giggle fit in the aftermath of Sam's clown attack and surpassing the hilarity of Cas' failed night at the brothel by the sheer amount of tension it dispels.

"Yeah?" Dean grins and Cas nods at him, lips breaking into his familiar half smile and it's like a fog lifting, the path between them clear again for the first time in years.

An easy moment passes as Dean lets the final remnants of his laughter draw out of him in a sigh, Cas watching him with soft eyes, crinkled fondly at the corners.

"Are we good, Cas?" Dean asks as the quiet settles. Because he needs to be sure. Needs to hear it from Cas himself. "Tell me we're good."

Cas takes a breath.

"I will need longer. To find peace with myself. If that's even possible," he answers. "But... yes. We are... good."

Relief pools warm in Dean's belly as he nods back. It's all either of them can hope for, really.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Cas sits up suddenly, straight-backed, voice growing frantic.

"Dean...? Dean?"

Dean tenses.

"Cas, what is it?"

"Dean, where are you? _Dean!_ "

Jumping to his feet before Dean can stop him Cas starts turning round and round, head twisting to and fro, eyes wide with panic.

Shock paralyses Dean, but only for a moment. Soon enough he's rushing up and towards his friend, gripping Cas by the shoulders to keep him still.

"Cas. Cas, I'm here," he says, trying to latch on to the angel's moving gaze. "I'm right here."

Dean cups a hand round Cas' neck to try and stop his head turning and the feel of it seems to get through. Cas blinks hard, regaining enough focus to reach his own hand to Dean's jaw. He breathes out deep when his palm rubs across unshaven skin, wide eyes relaxing as they fit back into Dean's.

"For a moment I thought..." Cas gasps, drawing them closer until their foreheads press together. "I'm sorry."

"It's cool," Dean pants, then holds still to let their breathing even out, waiting until they're in sync with each other before trusting himself to speak again. Jesus, he can still feel the adrenaline pulsing down his veins, like they've just escaped a nest of hungry vamps or something.

"Lucifer?" he asks.

Cas draws back, hand and head together, and nods. Dean's hand drops naturally through the shift and he finds himself cold now they're no longer touching.

"I can't resist him much longer," Cas explains. "Not without withdrawing completely."

_Damn it_. But they're not done here. Not nearly enough.

"Sam had this trick he used," Dean offers. It's all he's got. "This scar on his hand. He'd touch it and, I don't know, it reminded him what was real and what wasn't I guess."

He can see Cas is listening hard, eager for anything that might help. But ultimately the angel shakes his head.

"I don't scar," he says.

"No. Right," Dean mutters, pacing a few steps away then back again as he thinks. "Okay... okay... what if... we had some kind of code?" He stops and spreads an arm out in question. "Just between us. Something I can say, so you'll know it's me -"

Another apologetic shake of the head.

"It's a nice idea," Cas concurs. "But whatever you tell me, he'll know. Any arrangement we make, any code we establish, he will simply mimic in your absence. It will be meaningless."

Dean spits out a curse.

"There's gotta be something..." He paces behind him this time, towards the wall. "Maybe if I wrote something down..."

He turns back and his toe catches on something small and hollow, kicking it away.

Bobby's flask. He'd forgotten.

The container slides across the floor and bumps into a leg of the desk by the door. A second later a drawer at the top Dean hadn't noticed before slides open.

Cas, who'd been watching along with Dean, presses the ball of his hand to his temple and squeezes his eyes shut soon after.

"Not real. It's not real..." he murmurs.

"No, no, it's okay," Dean tries to reassure him, moving over to draw Cas' arm down with both hands. "The, uh... the flask must have knocked something loose."

When Cas blinks his eyes open he shoots Dean a doubtful look and Dean doesn't blame him. It's a stretch. Another freaky occurrence to add to the list. To explain away with banality because the alternative is too much to hope for.

Giving Cas a quick, and what he hopes is comforting, pat on the arm, Dean steps towards the desk to retrieve the container. As he reaches down for it he half expects to find a page in Enochian hidden underneath, detailing how to cure mentally afflicted angels in five easy steps.

No such luck.

Sighing, he straightens up and tucks the thing back in his jacket, eyes falling on the open drawer. It's empty save for a small, faux leather bound bible, pocket size.

He smiles wryly. Somehow he doesn't think god is the answer here.

Then his lips part in a gasp because _wait a minute_ , that's _perfect!_

"Got it!" he exclaims, snatching the book up and spinning round. "See this?" he says, waving the thing in front of him. It takes Cas a moment to follow the moving object well enough to make out what it is. When he does he frowns. "This is how we're gonna work this..."

Dean breaks the spine at random and starts skimming though the passages inside. _Nah, too boring_ , he thinks, flicking a few pages on. _Too stupid... too hard to remember..._ Keeping this up, he walks back to the bed and sits down so he can leaf through the thing easier.

"I don't understand..." Cas says, stepping in front of him.

"Simple," Dean tells him, holding the bible open in his lap while he looks up. "I'm gonna pick something from here. A line, maybe two. And I'm gonna mark it." Freeing a hand from under the book he searches inside his jacket until he finds a pen and holds it up as a visual aid. "But you're not gonna see what I pick. And if you don't see, Lucifer can't see. Right?"

"Yes," Cas nods, bemused.

"Now, when I'm gone, you're gonna keep this -" He pats the open pages. "- on you at all times. You're not gonna go anywhere without it. It's gonna be your fucking security blanket. I'll talk to the staff, convince them you're, I don't know, super religious and it helps, or something. Then the next time you see me, or what you _think_ is me, you ask what I picked. And if you look it up and the page is clean, you _know_ whoever, or whatever, you're talking to is lying. You with me?"

Cas doesn't shake his head this time, which is encouraging. Instead he presses his lips together in thought.

"He has the power to alter my reality," he says after a moment. "He could make me think a passage is marked when it isn't."

Dean nods. Fair point.

"Then you get someone else to check," he answers. "One of the nurses here. Fucking Meg. Ask the whole damn hospital if you have to. Enough that they can't all be wrong or lying."

Cas sucks on his bottom lip, still unsure.

"Look, I know it's not perfect," Dean continues. "But we're never gonna get perfect. We gotta work with what we've got."

Another pause. Then Cas nods his assent.

"Pick your passage."

Dean goes back to flicking through pages, absorbing himself in the task. He needs something short and snappy and, preferably, something he's not going to feel like too much of an idiot saying out loud. Or, wait, bible verses are numbered aren't they? Maybe he could remember a number. That'd be easier.

He's so focused he doesn't notice Cas move to sit beside him until the mattress dips under the angel's weight.

"Hey, no peeking," Dean jokes as he glances round, hoping to get back some of the light-heartedness they'd shared earlier.

But his smile drops when sees the expression on Cas' face. Cas is looking straight ahead, lips pressed into a hard line, brow creased like he's in pain.

"Hurry," he says.

_Fuck,_ Dean thinks, turning back. They're running out of time. He'll pick at random. Anything. It doesn't matter.

He holds his pen up, planning to mark wherever it lands, when the arrangement of text on the spread of pages makes him frown. He's sure this isn't what he had open before. _What?_

The door handle clicks, hinges creaking as the door swings forward, and the corner of one of the pages folds over. Maybe the two things are connected, maybe not, but Dean doesn't care because the point of the folded-over page has given him what he needs. Ignoring Sam's hesitant 'hey,' he puts a clear black circle around Proverbs 17:17, snaps the bible shut and twists round.

"Done," he says, holding the book out.

But Cas doesn't take it. He can't. His hands are loose in his lap, eyes glossed over and unseeing.

"Damn it..." Dean mutters under his breath, trying to keep the disappointment from his face. Lost again. And after they'd come so far. Even though Dean knew this was coming it still leaves him cold.

"What's going on?" Sam asks, quiet but insistent. "The doctors are asking questions, I can't keep them out much longer..."

"One minute, Sam," Dean says, glancing his brother's way. Sam's warm, puppy dog eyes blink back at him. Soft and understanding. "Gimme one minute."

He doesn't look to see if Sam agrees. He doesn't have to. His brother's spent every day since Stanford longing for one more minute, he's not gonna deny Dean this.

Stepping from the bed, Dean crouches in front of Cas, staring up at his friend's lifeless eyes.

"I gotta go, Cas. But here -" He takes hold of Cas' limp hands and presses the bible into them, arranging things on the angel's lap so the book stays in place. He'll talk to Meg. Make sure she knows to keep it near. "Now you... you gotta hold on," he adds. "Don't let that dick of a brother get the better of you, okay?"

Nothing.

Dean drops his head, aware of Sam shuffling awkwardly by the door.

Guess that's it then.

He gets up and turns, fully intending to head out, but seeing Sam standing in the doorway, a bittersweet smile on his face - sad but proud - somehow gives him the courage he'd been lacking before. Sam's always done that - made Dean want to be better. He'll look at Dean like he hung the moon and put Dean in half a mind to get a lasso and a rocket just to see if he could. That's what happened in that Green Room with Michael bearing down on them. Sam had seen the best in him and Dean couldn't, he just _couldn't_ , let him down. There's an echo of that same feeling now as Dean turns back to Cas. The sense that what Sam sees in him - that stronger, braver Dean - might actually be something he can live up to.

"Cas..." he breathes, reaching down to stroke a hand over Cas' cheek and through his hair. It's okay if he doesn't respond, Dean knows for sure the angel can hear him now. "I mean it. Hang in there."

It's no effort at all to bend forward, past even the closest of Cas' personal space invasions, so he can whisper in his friend's ear.

"I'm coming back for you."

And then he's finally closing those few extra, elusive inches and pressing a harsh, bruising kiss to Cas' forehead. Dean's eyes close and he lingers in the moment, fingers biting into the base of Cas' skull as though, if he just clutches tight enough, he can keep Cas close and safe forever.

It's less a goodbye than a beginning. A promise.

A final breath, taking in Cas' scent - generic hospital soap and the static taste of ozone - and Dean's gone.

He reaches Sam in three strides and follows him out the door. But not before looking back one last time. Perhaps he's imagining it, but he thinks Cas' looks more relaxed, the trace of a smile at his lips.

Dean smiles too. Gentle. Then grimly.

Dick Roman better watch out, because if he thought Dean was gunning for him before it's nothing compared to what Dean has planned now. There'll be no pulling punches, no more 'Dicking' around. The leviathans' days are numbered. And if anyone or anything so much as thinks about getting in Dean Winchester's way from this moment on well their days are too.

Because Dean's _coming back_.

Just try and stop him.

_~ **fin** ~_


End file.
